


of fangs and feathers

by argentumn



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Kiesha'ra, Alternate Universe - Shapeshifters, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Minor Character Death, Non-Graphic Violence, Post-Time Skip, Royal Prompto AU, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:55:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26907709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/argentumn/pseuds/argentumn
Summary: Two princes have the chance to end a thousand-year war, but they must rise above the differences of their opposing species and create their own world of peace.Noctis, Lucian Arami and Prompto, Tuuli Thea of Niflheim have to find a way to end the war that no one remembers the beginning of and if the only way is to join their courts, then so be it.Against the judgement of their elders, Noctis and Prompto travel to neutral territory to discuss and begin their plan. Sabotage and old traditions seek to stand in their way, but joining the Lucian and Niflheim courts open a new realm of possibilities and a tentative time of peace.
Relationships: Prompto Argentum/Noctis Lucis Caelum
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _"I'm late, I'm late, I'm late"_ the white rabbit once said and so does it apply here.
> 
> it's here! my piece for the Promptis Big Bang 2020, late as it is (because lmao what are timezones and my internet is hating me right now). a huge thank you to all the mods and participants of this project, particularly [Cor](https://twitter.com/HardNoctLife), my mod and [Rem](https://twitter.com/rem_lilim), my artist who created this beautiful piece (link will be added)!
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, as much of a stress-inducing disaster it has been over the last few months and seeing as it's late anyway, I'll be updating as I go so ~~it's not all going up at once I'm sorry I fail as a bang writer~~.

The field was littered with corpses, Niflheim and Lucian alike.

Prompto only felt the bile rising as he tip-toed around severed limbs and lifeless bodies. Every so often, he would stop and close the unseeing eyes of people he once knew. There was always an air of unforgiving misery over a battlefield and this one was no different. Prompto had been adjusting the bag slung around his hips, half-full of keepsakes that he would return to the families of the fallen when a pained whine caught his attention.

A hand, raised to his guards, commanding them silently to maintain their positions. Blond hair followed the motions, as his head swivelled, to find the source of the noise. It wasn’t long before it came again, leaking out from behind a sparse clump of bushes to Prompto’s right. The approach was cautious, one hand hovering above his concealed dagger and three steps, two, one…

There’s a soldier sprawled in the dirt, black uniform giving away his Lucian allegiance. As Prompto creeps closer, he realises this soldier is really no more than a child, face scrunched in agony and breath coming in short bursts, brown hair matted against his forehead with sweat. His eyes open when Prompto’s shadow falls across him and they betray every ounce of fear and pain he feels. Prompto wants to tell him it will all be fine, that he’s not alone now but the words are stuck in his traitorous throat.

“Please…”

Prompto falls, unbidden, to his hands and knees in the blood-stained dirt and tries to catch the pained gasps.

“Please… End it.”

There’s anxious shuffling between his guards and Prompto knows they can sense the waves of distress emanating from both him and the boy. In any normal situation, Prompto would school his emotions into the practised Avian Reserve that was drilled into him from birth; Prompto would surely be severely reprimanded if any of his guards tattled to his father that he had shown emotion and for a Lucian no less.

“Aldercapt.”

One of his guards is approaching him, the only one who could refuse an order from him and live without punishment. The rest remained where Prompto had left them. Some are in their second forms of ravens, the rest with wings held taught, against their shoulders.

“Not that one, Your Highness. It will bring more trouble than he’s worth.”

Prompto’s hand is prevented from grabbing his dagger by a strong hand on his shoulder.

“A mercy kill is no mercy from the enemy royal. Leave him.”

There’s nothing Prompto would rather do at the moment than tear at his hair and scream profanities, for all the good it would do him. He would not cry for the people his kingdom had lost; he would not have such shame brought on them, even in death. This boy, however, this boy could have his tears and have them he does, fat droplets rolling down Prompto’s cheeks and falling from his chin to the dirt below.

“He’ll suffer if I do nothing, Loqi. I won’t leave him like this. It’ll take too long.”

“Let it take too long,” Loqi does a poor job of disguising his displeasure. “Lucians won’t thank you for ending the life of one of their own. Merciful or not.”

Prompto tries desperately to stem the flow of his tears, taking the boy’s hand and clutching it between his own.

“Then we stay until he goes. You of all people should know how much I hate this stupid war. I won’t leave him to die alone.”

Loqi is visibly trying to tamp down his flaring temper at his charge’s stubbornness. He _did know_ just how much Prompto hated the seemingly endless war between their home of Niflheim and the country of Lucis; knows how much the conflict has weighed on the royal family. He’s also all too aware that there was little anyone could do to stop the fighting, too steeped in the blood of their shared history. It would take nothing short of a miracle to end the war, now.

So he stands guard, orders the others to take their dead and return to the Keep. They seem reluctant but he leaves them no room for argument and they go, sparing a last look at Prompto, at their Prince, kneeling in the dirt.

They couldn’t tell you how long they stayed, keeping a dying child company.

The lullaby that brought so much comfort to Prompto when he was younger was caught in his throat, torn between wanting to be sung but also wanting to be kept from Lucian ears. He settles on humming, hoping that at least the wordless melody would help ease the boy.

It begins to rain and the boy breathes his last.

+++

Prompto is sullen as the gates of the Keep appear on the horizon, wingbeats slow and barely keeping him airborne.

Loqi flies ahead, gold wings just a few shades darker than Prompto’s own, creating an easy slipstream for Prompto to follow through. The flight back to the Keep gives them both an opportunity to quell their emotions, to re-enforce the restrained façade their society demands.

There’s no fanfare as they pass through the gates, raindrops still kissing their skin like the sky is weeping for their fallen. If Prompto were weaker, he would take the opportunity to allow his own tears to fall, hidden behind the water already on his skin. He won’t, though. Not with his father watching from a window to his left and the array of guards settled in the courtyard. So, he retains his composure; his back ram-rod straight and chin lifted.

It’s still a struggle. His knees feel like they’re a second away from giving out from under him and his chest is so tight it hurts to breathe. Still, he pushes aside his discomfort and holds himself proudly, steadily marching his way towards his father’s office and leaving the quiet courtyard behind.

The hallways of the Keep aren’t much better, near-silent despite the way they _should_ echo the everyday goings-on of the people within its walls. There are courtiers that shuffle along in silence, heads bowed as Prompto passes, eyes locked on their feet. It was something that Prompto was simultaneously grateful for and loathed, the distance between the court and himself. Grateful the space afforded him the ability to hide troublesome emotions but loathing the lack of friends his position demanded.

Friends were not something the next-in-line Tuuli Thea had in good supply.

Prompto finds himself in front of the heavy oak door to his father’s study in good time. There was nothing Prompto hated more than earning the disapproval of his father and there was nothing more his father loathed than tardiness. Perhaps he could’ve dragged his feet a little if his father hadn’t seen their arrival.

Today he had no such luck.

Even before he raised a hand to knock, a voice commanded him entry from inside.

Iedolas Aldercapt is an intimidating man, despite his physical stature and his dwindling years.

Prompto can see easily how people find it hard to believe he’s his father’s son at first glance; they’d be right. Aldercapt, in everything but legal paperwork, was not Prompto’s father. You see, Prompto was born a Besithia, a family that was an Aldercapt’s right hand in court and when there was no heir produced before the death of Iedolas’ mate, he had demanded Prompto’s father give up one of his children to take the burden.

The difference was obvious, at least to those who knew. There was no way to mistake a Ferruginous Hawk with a Whistling Kite; their colourings were far too different, Prompto’s second form was significantly larger and there was obviously the specific knowledge that Aldercapt’s mate never bore offspring.

Still, the demand had been made in Prompto’s ninth Summertide and Verstael Besithia had been practically powerless to refuse.

“I’ve returned, Father.”

Prompto bows at the waist, willing his voice steady. The last thing he needed was Aldercapt picking up on any hints of emotion. He wasn’t sure he could take another round of beatings like last time. His back twinged empathetically as the blond straightened, phantom pain sizzling just beneath his freckled skin.

“Why, pray tell, did the flock return before you? _Without_ you?”

He flinches, knowing that Aldercapt had no real love for him and only concern over the title he’d inherit, the glaring mistake he’d made earlier biting him in the tail. Aldercapt continues without waiting for a response.

“I understand the want of being alone with your future Alistair, however, you’re aware of your own and Loqi’s posit–“

“ _What?_ You have to be joking! _Loqi?”_

Prompto’s mouth begins talking before he can weigh the consequences and he instantly knows he crossed a line; Aldercapt’s back goes rigid and his knuckles clench ‘til they’re white. There’d been discussions before Prompto’s sixteenth birthday, focused on finding him a suitable mate within the small inner court circle. Loqi had been one of four choices and the only one Aldercapt had deemed acceptable.

With the second form of a Golden Eagle, anyone would be hard-pressed to believe Prompto was unhappy with the selection. What they wouldn’t know is that Loqi has eyes for another and that Prompto would rather break his own wings than take his Head Guard as his Alistair. It was nothing personal against Loqi. He was, generally, rather nice to Prompto but there was an unspoken line between them that had existed since they were children, that their relationship would remain solely as Tuuli Thea and Guard.

Under the watchful eyes of their parents and Aldercapt, however, they’d managed to keep a sort of courteous façade to appease their elders. Behind closed doors, Loqi would whine and throw tantrums about how much he hated their situation and Prompto always agreed.

Now, Prompto slipped up and was facing Aldercapt’s furious wrath.

“You of all people should know Loqi was chosen as your future mate. You _will_ take him as your Alistair on your coronation and you will make no complaints. Is that clear?”

Aldercapt’s wrinkled face is twisted into some gruesome mask of fury, his eyes boring holes through Prompto’s scalp. The blond is too terrified to even raise his head.

“Leave. You’re to remain in your chambers until called for.”

Prompto barely manages to squeak out an apology before he’s practically running for the door. 

+++

Three days pass before Prompto’s allowed out of his chambers.

He sits quietly in his room, reading over scrolls and scrolls of official court things, the door only opening when a servant brings him meals. It’s a public punishment for defying Aldercapt; a punishment Prompto would take if it meant avoiding more private and _physical_ punishments. It didn’t stop the anxious feeling that ran static over his skin.

Aldercapt’s temper was fickle and his desires could change at the drop of a feather.

That was something Prompto knew all too well.

He’s halfway through a new scroll when there’s an ungodly commotion outside his door. People are yelling for Guards and there’s the rushing sound of heavy footsteps and the telltale _whoosh_ of wings being spread. It’s enough to make Prompto leap from his bed and hurry to the door, throwing it open and poking his head out into the open.

All the rooms in the Keep open to gangways overlooking the interior. There are very few stairs in the Keep, most inhabitants being able to fly to their respective quarters and those that can’t are kept on lower levels, where it’s easier for them to access.

Prompto’s room is near the very top of the Keep, only a level or two lower than the Tuuli Thea suites themselves.

There are no Guards outside his door when Prompto emerges, crossing the short distance between his room and the railing. The commotion is coming from the very lowest level, near the small market by the Keep entrance and Prompto can barely see Loqi between the crowd, giant Eagle wings flared and raised high above his shoulders.

It’s an intimidating display Prompto’s only seen in training.

He shrinks to his knees, watching between the railing gaps and trying to listen through the noise. Between Loqi’s display and the Guards quickly ushering people back to the higher levels of the Keep, Prompto knows their guest is not someone invited. He gets his answer soon enough when the crowd finally disperses enough for Prompto to see Aldercapt, his _real_ father, Loqi and a handful of armed Guards.

There’s a woman standing in the entrance of the Keep, hands level with her ears.

Prompto’s suddenly grateful for a Hawk’s eyesight.

Her hair is dark, curling around her ears and stopping halfway down her slightly tanned neck. Her clothing is also dark, material deceptively shiny and her eyes are a muted ruby. Prompto gapes from his vantage point and chokes on a sharp inhale.

That ruby gaze flicks upwards, locking onto his own and she smiles.

“I’ve come on behalf of the Lucis Caelums.”

The name alone sends a ripple effect through the Guards and they grip their weapons just that little bit tighter.

“I don’t wish to fight,” she says, keeping her hands raised. “I only wish to speak to your Prince.”

Loqi’s feathers ruffle and he stands straighter, the very picture of an intimidating Head Guard.

“What business do you have with the heir?”

Prompto doesn’t even realise he’s moving until his wings snap open behind him and he’s jumping off the railing to glide to the lower floors. There’s a strangled noise from Aldercapt who bites down on his enraged shout when Prompto lands, his father giving him a reproachful look when Prompto steps up behind Loqi. The woman turns her ruby gaze on him immediately and bends at the waist.

“Thank you for what you did for my mate.”

Both the gratitude and the sudden vulnerability she shows as she exposes her back to them are enough to startle Prompto _and_ Loqi. The Eagle takes a fraction of a step back and Prompto moves forward.

“Your mate?”

“Yes,” she straightens and folds her hands in front of her. “You stayed with him as he drew his last breaths on the battlefield, even though you could’ve ended him yourself.”

Prompto’s mind flashes back to the soldier, dying on the bloodied battlefield, begging him to end his suffering.

“I did nothing but let him suffer until his last.” He admits, stoically. “Your thanks is unwarranted.”

Silently, Prompto begs her to not say anything further, already feeling the back of his neck burn with the weight of both his father’s and Aldercapt’s eyes. He hopes that his attempt at apathy is convincing enough; the Lucian in front of him was making it even more difficult than usual. He may be regretting his automatic response to reveal himself, just a little.

Thankfully, it seems she must be able to read his mind.

“Forgive me, I’ve not yet introduced myself. My name is Iris Amicitia, daughter and sister of the current serving royal Shields.”

Iris bows deeply, exposing herself in a careful show of vulnerability; a show of perhaps baseless trust. Prompto supposes he can offer the same display, bowing with folded wings and an arm across his chest.

“Allow me to formally introduce myself. Prompto Aldercapt, heir to the Tuuli Thea.”

There’s disgruntled shuffling and murmuring from behind him as they straighten and Iris catches his gaze once more.

“Our Arami extends an invitation to you, Prince Prompto, to visit our court and perhaps to discuss peace.” Iris’ tone is assured but wavering on the side of hopeful.

“And what of your King?” Besithia asks; before Prompto can fully understand what she’s saying. “Does he extend the invitation as well? Or does he expect to be able to eliminate the next Tuuli Thea?”

Prompto wants nothing more than to be able to turn around and whine that his father is being rude and inconsiderate of their guest. Unfortunately, the blond is fully aware of his position and his inability to behave like a child without acquiring consequences. He thinks Iris must have a steel gut, as she looks past him and straight at his father.

“The Diente sends his regards and his approval of the Arami’s invitation. He grows tired of the war and is open to negotiating a peace treaty. There will be no threat against your Prince in our court.”

Loqi fidgets next to Prompto, hands clasped behind his back as he stands at a military rest. It’s clear he’s highly uncomfortable, probably even suspicious, of the sudden invitation. His wings twitch like he wants to take off and Prompto _almost_ feels inclined to agree.

It’s an out-of-the-blue request, considering just _how long_ the Niflheim-Lucian War had been raging with no signs of an end. Even so, it’s a tempting one.

Aldercapt makes an enraged noise behind him, beginning to decline the invitation vehemently.

“Absolutely not. I will not allow him to wander into snake territory. Tell your _Diente_ ,” Aldercapt spits the word like acid, “to take his invite and–”

“That I accept.”

Prompto clenches his jaw tightly as Aldercapt whirls on him from where he’d marched ahead in his fit of rarely-publicised anger. _Let them see his hypocrisy_ , the blond thinks, knowing just how insistently the Tuuli Thea invokes the Avian Reserve. With any luck, it would only get Prompto on the throne sooner, if the Court were to depose Aldercapt from his lack of composure in the face of their so-called sworn enemy.

“What did you say, boy?”

He doesn’t back down from the challenge. Not this time.

“I accept the Arami’s invitation to visit their court, at the earliest convenience.”

+++

By some god’s grace, Prompto manages to stay well clear of the positively _fuming_ Aldercapt and Verstael, preparing himself for the journey into Lucian territory.

He packs lightly, with a gift or two for Iris and the unknown prince he’s going to face. They’re only small trinkets, really but Prompto decides it’s better than going empty-handed. He just hopes the items, hand-picked from some of the master craftsmen in the marketplace, wouldn’t be considered an insult. It was too bad the scarce few Lucian traders hidden away in the far corner of the space barely spoke to their regular customers, let alone to _him_.

The gifts are wrapped in a soft cloth and go into a secure pocket of his pack, out of sight.

Iris had given herself a head start, trusting Prompto to follow the directions he collects from a merchant. They’re simple enough, with a detailed map of the ground between the Keep and the Court, instructions on how to travel written in looping handwriting. He half-wishes she had stayed to accompany him in person, even though he understands her haste to leave.

He wishes he had the same liberty.

Instead, his father and Aldercapt are waiting for him at the gate, stoic-faced and cutting imposing figures that people swerve to avoid.

The urge to stride past them and out of the Keep without a second glance is unimaginably _strong_ , despite the undoubtedly horrid situation it would put him in later. So, he stops, unwilling but ready to face whatever vile things they would have him hear.

He doubts they’re only here to wish him well on his journey and they prove him right, quickly.

“Understand this is not a visit between friends,” Aldercapt clenches his fists at his sides; Prompto thinks the old man would like to imagine them around the blond’s throat. “You are to find any and all weaknesses they expose. That information will be pivotal in conquering their armies.”

It’s a hard fight to keep his hatred off his face, eyes narrowing ever so slightly and gritting his teeth in order to bite back the retort on the tip of his tongue.

“You’ll not overstay your welcome,” his father sounds bored like he’d rather be anywhere than watching his son leave for a hostile court. “Gather the intel you need and return, there’s no need to make friends.”

There’s a horrible sneer on Aldercapt’s face at that and Prompto immediately wants to turn tail and run.

“I’ve no problems with you making _friends_ ,” he says mockingly, horrible yellowed teeth on display. “As long as you can still kill them on the battlefield.”

The laughter that follows echoes through Prompto’s head, followed by a morbid sense of pride that he hasn’t fled already. He’s quietly satisfied that his father looks almost as perturbed as he feels if the clenched jaw and averted eyes are anything to go by.

The arrival of the Guard is a small mercy.

“Your Highness, it’s time to go.”

Prompto’s never been more grateful for Loqi’s presence than he is in that moment, watching Aldercapt’s blue eyes flicking between his freckled face and the Head Guard. He’s frozen in place, knowing better than to move before he’s been dismissed.

Finally, Aldercapt waves him away with a displeased grunt and sweeps back into the depths of the Keep, leaving Prompto alone with his father. There’s a tense silence, until Verstael sighs deeply, running a scarred hand through greying hair.

“Prompto,” he pauses, searching for the words that Prompto understands will never come easy. “I can only offer you an apology. This was never the life I meant for you to have. It has served me right that Aranea left when she did.”

Prompto never doubted his father felt guilty having to thrust him into a life that he wasn’t meant to live and for his sister leaving in a fit of rage; never doubted his father still held love for him _somewhere_ in his heart. He’s always been in the shadows, watching and doing his best to steer Prompto in the right direction. Of course, Prompto’s always been well aware that whatever either of them wants, always plays second fiddle to the whims of the Tuuli Thea.

“Prompto.”

Loqi’s at military rest, arms behind his back and wings crossed at the tips. He hasn’t moved any closer than he was when he’d first arrived but the warning tone in his voice is enough. They needed to leave if they were to make their halfway destination by sundown. He nods at Loqi over his shoulder and bows to his father.

“I’m grateful for your apology but I’m afraid it’s too little too late. I’ll see you when I return. Goodbye, father.”

He doesn’t look back as they leave, stomach clenching with anxiety at the thought of his father’s blue-grey eyes watching his departure.

+++

All things considered, the flight isn’t terrible.

They stop at the river junction to look at Iris’ map, just to be sure of the direction they need to take. It grants them time to cool down a little from the harsh sun, take a drink from the clear water and snack on the fruit they’ve brought with them. Prompto checks his pack for the gifts he’d brought and sighs a little in relief that they’re so far unharmed.

“Are you sure of your plan, Prom?”

Loqi’s low voice in his ear has Prompto biting down a screech, shoving the flaps of his pack closed and hiding the trinkets from peeping eyes. The plan, of course, is for Loqi and Prompto to slip away from the others during the night, completing the journey on their own.

“Yes,” he says, feeling the uncomfortable tickle of ruffled feathers under his skin. “There’s no reason to make the Lucian agitated by bringing a whole flock into their den. We’d be dead on sight, nevermind the fact we were invited by their Prince.”

Loqi casts him a glance that howls of distress but he says nothing more. He, of all people, is well aware that when Prompto puts his mind to something, it’d take nothing short of a miracle for him to change it. An outraged shriek pulls their attention away and towards some of the Guard who have taken to splashing in the river.

“Alright, you lot!” Loqi’s voice carries easily, authoritative tone that captures the attention of his subordinates. “Time to pack up and move out before we lose daylight.”

Various cries of _yes sir_ and _right away_ come in response and it’s not long until they all take to the air again.

Prompto’s always felt a sense of freedom when he shed his human skin. His hawk is almost as large as Loqi’s eagle, easily dwarfing the ravens and sparrows that make up the rest of the Guard. He doesn’t know how to describe the push and pull of the wind in his feathers, how the sheer size of his wingspan eats up the distance _so_ much faster than human legs and how his eyes see _everything_.

Sure, he’s clumsier when he has to cross land in this form but it’s the smallest setback when he can quite literally dominate the skies instead.

He wonders if this is the joy Shiva meant for her followers to experience when she gifted them these secondary forms all those years ago.

A sharp cry broke Prompto from his thoughts, smoke rising from a clearing through the trees, signalling their arrival at the midway point.

There’s a quaint little inn nestled in the treeline of the clearing, another building clearly meant for horses or cattle a little ways to its left. It’s quite a pleasant establishment to look at, all clean-cut stone and timber, bright and vibrant flowers filling the garden beds surrounding it. There’s a gentle buzz of insects that reach them as they land, shifting back to their human forms as a portly woman with a bright smile and ruddy cheeks bustles out the door to meet them.

“Ah, you must be the little Prince I was told about,” she says, coming to a stop in front of Prompto and peering up at him with wide, pale green eyes. “Iris mentioned you were quite a looker, not that she ever talks about much else while she’s here.”

She talks so quickly no one else can get a word in. Prompto can feel the unease of the Guard behind him and he does his best to smile charmingly.

“I’m glad Iris was so agreeable with her depictions of me,” he casts a quick glance over his shoulder. “If you wouldn’t mind, we left at sunrise and would very much like to bed down as soon as possible.”

The innkeeper follows his gaze and gasps, hands flying to her cheeks.

“Oh dear, of course! I apologise for chattering so much when you’re obviously all so exhausted. Please, come in and I’ll get you to your rooms.”

She leads them into what is clearly a well-loved tavern, merchants of all kinds gathered around tables with tankards of ale in their hands. None bat an eye as their contingent troops through and up the stairs to find their rooms, far too accustomed to strangers wandering through these parts to pay any real attention. A blessing, Loqi would whisper later, the fewer who realise a Prince is in their midst, the fewer who’ll try their luck.

Prompto wishes he could ask Loqi to elaborate but he caught sight of a sharp-looking dagger on one of the merchant’s belts and thinks he has an idea.

The rooms are simple, much less extravagant than Prompto’s used to. Two plain beds, a washbasin and two wooden chairs make up the interior of the rooms, with fresh linens and a full water jug in each. It’s bare and simple, something Prompto surprisingly finds he doesn’t mind, focus drawn to the single window on the opposite wall.

He can barely see the forest beyond, the shadows of tiny critters scampering their way back home in the dwindling light blurred by the thick glass.

“Prompto,” Loqi’s already claimed the bed closest to the door, sifting through his own pack. “Get some sleep while you can, I’ll wake you when it’s time.”

His gaze turns from the window, nodding as he makes his way to the other bed. The sheets are cool to the touch, clean and freshly pressed, a far cry from the perpetually warm sheets of his own bed. He shivers a little as he sheds his heavy coat, laying it over the end of the bed before slipping under the blanket.

His head barely hits the pillow before he’s out like a light in a matter of seconds.

+++

It’s impossibly dark when Prompto wakes, with the only sources of light, a dwindling candle on the shared nightstand and the moon fighting to be seen through clouds.

Loqi is still asleep in the adjacent bed, wings tucked against his back and laying on his stomach. The picture of perfect ease, like he hasn’t a care in the world and will wake with the sound of songbirds in the morning.

In the silence of the night, Prompto can hear the distant rush of the river they’d flown over earlier and he extricates himself from the sheets quietly. The quiet conversation from earlier floats through his head, swirling in circles as he stares at Loqi’s wings in the low light, feathers quivering with each breath. Something shifts outside - most likely a horse in the stable - and the sudden rustle makes Prompto flinch, holding his breath in case Loqi wakes.

Loqi mumbles something incoherent, adjusting his position before slumbering on without waking.

Prompto lets out the breath he’s holding as slowly as he is physically able, doing his absolute best to not make any sudden movements that would create any amount of noise.

He knows what he’s about to do will get him into a world of trouble; with his father, with Aldercapt and _especially_ with Loqi but he’s going to do it anyway. He’s going to gather his coat and pack, ease the window open as far as it will go and shimmy his way out. He’s going to execute his little separation plan, just without Loqi in tow, as was first decided.

It’s a deceivingly small drop from the second storey window to the ground below, evening dew making the grass damp underfoot. The moisture softens his footsteps, mutes them in a way that even the best hearing creatures would be hard-pressed to follow his movements. He debates using his second form as he heads for the trees, deciding against it once he’s past the first few rows and the moonlight dims as it filters through the foliage. Even without the trees blocking light, his bird’s eye is significantly worse at night than his human one.

So he continues on foot, carefully picking his way through the tree roots and undergrowth.

It’s a fairly straightforward route, empty of any person or creature at this time of night and he finds rest near a small stream, a few hours into his journey. It’s enough for him to replenish his water supply and to lay Iris’ map out on a flat rock, illuminated just enough by the patch of moonlight that comes unhindered through the trees.

He’s heading the right way, with the way the moon has been traversing from his left to his right, he’s still heading due North and closer to Lucian territory. Prompto’s suddenly glad for the orienteering lessons Aldercapt had forced onto him since childhood. Without those, he’d surely be in a puddle of trouble right about now. Especially without another more knowledgeable person guiding him along the way.

With a light grunt, he gets to his feet and stows everything back into his pack. He’s still not close enough to his destination to stop for any length of time. He leaps neatly over the water and continues on his way, ears and eyes open for any disturbances around him as he goes.

The forest is dark around him, eerie yet serene in the dim moonlight. There’s a creature calling in the distance, with an answering call coming from the other direction, both too far to cause him any real distress and he continues on.

It’s near daybreak by the time he comes across a landmark Iris had detailed on her map. It’s a gnarled old tree: wood stained with berry juice and dagger marks. There’s almost something sinister about it in the shadows, the way its branches are knotted and twisted, stretching further than any other tree that surrounds it.

It’s enough to bring shivers up Prompto’s spine.

He pauses in front of it, simply staring at the marked wood when the creak of something heavy shifting along a branch comes from his right. It’s near impossible to make out anything in the dark, with the moonlight long dimmed past sufficient light and the sun still yet to rise. To make matters worse, Prompto’s eyes are tired and itchy; on their way to being completely useless unless morning comes sooner rather than later.

It’s silent once more, as he tries to peer through the gloom.

A loud cry startles the blond as a figure assaults him behind, heavy but agile as Prompto does his best to fend them off. Exhaustion weighs his limbs down heavily, slowing down his usually lightning-quick reactions and it’s not long before he’s overpowered completely.

He barely gets out a strangled _“wait!”_ before a blunt force collides with his temple and sweet oblivion takes him.


	2. Chapter 2

Prompto rouses to the sounds of an argument, close by and volume rising rapidly.

“He’s a _guest_ for Ramuh’s sake, you don’t _jump_ a royal invitee!” A voice hisses, words warping around what Prompto guesses are probably fangs that have grown out of frustration.

“You can’t blame me,” the second voice is deeper than the first and the sharpness to it sets Prompto’s teeth on edge. “He was on our lands without an escort, what did you expect?”

Sudden silence lets Prompto’s eyes wander around the room, gathering from the deep jewel-toned fabrics and dark metal finishings that he was in the Lucian Court. His pack sits untouched in the corner. Soft, dim light radiating from the lamps strewn about the room makes the shadows dance and the blond sits up in the bed.

At least, he _assumes_ it’s a bed because looking at it, it’s just a carefully positioned pile of plush pillows and luxurious fabrics. It’s certainly large enough to hold multiple bodies, easily making Prompto feel dwarfed in comparison. An emerald green silk sheet is pooled around his waist, the rich colour washing out his already pale skin and the bandages wrapped around his torso.

 _Oh_ , that’s right.

All at once, the pain slams into him and he falls back with a soft whine. His ribs hurt, bruised black and blue, with scratches and marks littering the skin of his arms. A stark reminder of his welcome to Lucian territory.

A loud thud brings his head whipping around to stare at the solid door.

Prompto shuts his eyes just as the door cracks open, hoping to all Gods that they’ll believe he’s still unconscious and let him be. Of course, he’s not so lucky.

It’s silent after the door clicks shut again, providing some false hope but then a cool hand is resting on his forehead and he fails to stop the flinch it causes. If whoever is tending to him notices, they don’t acknowledge it, just continuing to rest their cool hand on his warm skin. There’s a distinct scent of rain that clings to whoever’s in the room with him, invading Prompto’s senses and he inhales it deeply.

“Are you done pretending?”

Startled, Prompto can’t stop his eyes opening and finds himself nose to nose with a Lucian boy no older than him. He can hear his heart rabbiting in his chest, a contrast to the slow and steady beating of the other boy’s.

The boy is _beautiful_ , all dark lines and sapphire eyes that shine in the dim lighting. Something instinctively tells Prompto that _this_ is the Lucian Arami; this is the boy who invited Prompto to his court in the hopes of finding common ground for the sake of peace.

The realisation has Prompto struggling to sit upright, a flash of fear at being in such a vulnerable position fuelling him past the burning pain of his injuries. The Arami rears back to avoid being headbutted in the blond’s urgency, surprise muddling with confusion at the sudden movement.

“Hey, what’re you– Stop! You’re still hurt!”

Gentle hands have a firm grip on Prompto’s shoulders, enough pressure to make him cease moving. He’s _scared_ , he figures. Scared of being in unknown territory, alone and injured, quite literally at the mercy of the boy in front of him.

The grip disappears once Prompto’s stopped moving, bright blue eyes searching his own in quiet curiosity. In its place, the Arami perches on the side of the bed, hands resting on the bed covers - out in the open. Prompto feels a little flutter of gratitude at the display.

“I don’t wish to harm you,” the boy says, eyes locked on Prompto’s face and a soft smile gracing his lips. “My name is Noctis Lucis Caelum. I’m the–”

“Lucian Arami.” Prompto finishes for him, bowing his head slightly in a formal greeting. “Surely it’s no secret to you who I am but I’ll introduce myself anyway. My name is Prompto Aldercapt, heir to the Tuuli Thea.”

The Arami — Noctis — nods, a glimmer of anticipation in his eyes and it boosts Prompto’s confidence, just a little.

“Might I ask after the person who so _graciously_ welcomed me to your Court?” He can’t help the sarcastic tone that bleeds into his voice. “I’d very much like to speak with them.”

The laughter that bubbles out of Noctis surprises him. It’s loud and more than a little breathy like it’s an action that doesn’t come often and is out of practice. He would feel affronted, though Noctis doesn’t give him the time.

“Gladio, get in here!”

Prompto repeats the new name under his breath as the door swings open without fanfare.

The open space is dwarfed by the man occupying it, with his broad shoulders and muscular build, not to mention the greatsword strapped to his back. Prompto can only assume the very mention of his name to those that know of him would strike fear into their hearts. Just having him stand in the doorway is enough to put Prompto on edge.

“You called?”

Gladio’s voice is deep and has a strong air of authority; the kind of voice that would make a room full of angry diplomats immediately silent to listen to whatever he’s saying.

Prompto thinks it matches his scarred but handsome face, well.

The hulking man moves further into the room, the door swinging shut behind him and Prompto gets a good look at his features as the lights hit his face. He barely stifles the gasp that makes to escape when Gladio steps into a patch of direct light.

There are scars that criss-cross Gladio’s face; one across his forehead, another over his left eye and Prompto thinks he can see another at the corner of his mouth but it could just be a shadow. It speaks of his life as a warrior, Prompto’s sure.

The closer he gets, the more Prompto can see, including the muted ruby of his irises that makes him immediately think of Iris. Something in his expression must change, a small but effective shift because Gladio drops to a knee and bows forward.

“I must ask for your forgiveness, Your Highness,” the words sound forced - empty - and Prompto nearly wants to make him stop. “You showed my sister great kindness and yet I did not extend you the same courtesy.”

“Your words are sweet,” Prompto says carefully, aware of Noctis looking back and forth between them. “But I am not in the habit of taking them at face value without understanding there is no real sincerity behind them.”

He watches as Gladio rises to his feet, red eyes cold and hard as flint. There’s conviction in them that tells Prompto being ambushed so suddenly wasn’t a mistake and if it were to happen again, the results would not change.

They are still Lucian; he is still from Niflheim.

By the words of all Kings past, _“never the two shall meet if not on a battlefield drenched in blood.”_

A knock at the door cracks the tension building and Noctis calls for them to come in.

“Your Highness, I’ve brought the items you requested.”

A man no older than Aranea enters the room, dressed immaculately in a suit that was probably worth as much as Prompto’s entire jewel collection. He’s tall and beautiful, silver glasses glinting in the lamplight, neatly styled hair and polished shoes. He’s carrying a bundle of clothing, as well as a sealed letter.

“Ignis,” Noctis greets, motioning for the man to come closer. “Can you see to it that our guest is well looked after for the moment? There’s something I must discuss with Gladio.”

“Of course, Your Highness.” Ignis bows as Noctis and his Shield leave the room, the heavy door swinging shut behind them.

“I’ve brought some clo-”

“You’re not Lucian.” Prompto cuts Ignis off, flushing pink at the surprised raise of perfectly sculpted eyebrows. “How did you end up here?”

Ignis’ posture deflates a little, as he looks for permission to sit on the edge of the bed. Prompto nods and shuffles to sit up a little further, wincing as the movement pulls some of the aches. If Ignis notices, he doesn’t comment.

“I must say I’m surprised you could tell so quickly,” he says, glasses perched on the end of his nose. “But you are correct, I’m not Lucian. I hail from Tenebrae.”

“Tenebrae?” Prompto wracks his memory for anything he learnt from his lessons, before drawing in a sharp breath. “You’re a _falcon?”_

Ignis nods, a slight smile creeping onto his face.

“Indeed.”

Prompto can’t help the childish glee that bubbles up inside him.

The Falcons were a secretive society, rarely ever encountered outside of their White City, hidden deep in the lush greenery of Tenebrae. The stories told of a powerful race of people, with powers far beyond anyone of Lucian or Niflheim descent. They had once mingled with other races, long before the war sent them running back to the White City, where they have stayed ever since.

“I’ve always been told Falcons don’t leave the White City,” Prompto muses, more of his lessons coming back to him. “Isn’t it, like, against the rules or something?”

Ignis snorts, amused.

“I’m afraid I saw very little of the White City before I left. My parents passed on when I was very young and I was sent to live with my uncle here in Insomnia.”

Prompto has the decency to feel ashamed at his assumptions, his apology waved off as Ignis redirects his attention to the pile of clothing and the letter he’d brought earlier.

“The clothes are an apology for the ones Gladio ruined but the letter is from your sister.”

“Aranea?” Prompto scrambles to open the seal, the excitement over communication from his dearly missed sister, overwhelming. “Does that mean she’s here, too?”

“I’m afraid not,” Ignis says, shaking his head. “She passed through a day or two ago on some hunting mission or whatnot. She did, however, seem to anticipate your arrival.”

Some disappointment wells up at the knowledge he would not be able to actually _see_ or speak to Aranea but the letter in his hands was enough for now.

_Prompto,_

_If you’re reading this, you made it to Insomnia in one piece.  
_ _Believe the fact the Lucian King and his son are truly hoping for peace, with their bringing you to their court but beware those around them who will wish for nothing but to harm you.  
_ _The King’s proposal will not be taken kindly by many, especially not by our father or the tyrant who holds your throne.  
_ _Ignis is a trusted ally of mine, though his duty to the Crown will always come before his personal feelings. If the proposed treaty falls through, you must be prepared to fly. Fly away as fast as your wings should carry you._

_I’m sorry we couldn’t meet this time, little bird. I will always hold you close in my heart._

_A x_

Prompto can’t help the sniffle that escapes, emotions heightened by his sister’s words. How he wishes he could’ve seen her, if even for a moment.

+++

The Lucian Court is so much larger than Prompto had ever expected, teeming with life of all shapes and sizes in every corner and a pleasant warmth that he’d never find back in Niflheim.

Multi-coloured pairs of eyes in reds, greens and blues follow his every movement as he walks a step behind Ignis, gifted clothing loose and flowing as he goes.

It’s a strange experience and vastly different from what he’s used to.

There’s no hiding their emotions in this Court, he finds, as bolder Lucians sneer in his direction or call out things in a tongue he doesn’t understand but can grasp the general connotations of. Every pair of eyes he meets is filled with open hostility or nervous curiosity.

“Try not to let them unnerve you,” Ignis says over his shoulder, opening a door to a quiet hallway. “As much as Lucians adore the sense of adventure, birds are not on their list of potential companions.”

“Were you ever treated like that?” Prompto asks, feeling bold from having such open contempt ruffling his feathers.

Ignis sighs as the door closes behind them and the joyous chatter of the Court is silenced. “No, I can’t say I was. Perhaps because I was a child, they seemed much more accepting of me than some other unfortunate folk I could tell you of.”

Prompto’s not sure he needs Ignis to tell him of _“other unfortunate folk”_ when he’s been walking abandoned, bloody battlefields since he was old enough to understand what death was. He’s already seen what the Lucians do to those they deem enemies.

Instinct makes him whisper another prayer to the Gods once again.

They stop in front of a heavy, ornate set of floor to ceiling double doors and Prompto feels a shiver race up his spine. He can’t hear anyone inside but he knows the most important people in this part of the world are waiting for him just beyond.

The nerves in his stomach multiple ten-fold when Ignis knocks heavily on the wood, a commanding voice calling them to enter.

Two guards inside pull the doors open without fanfare, revealing a large throne room with a tall, two-tiered dïas striking an imposing scene. It’s all marble and clean lines, with plush benches lining the walls and ornate thrones overseeing the room, a completely different feel from the cold and sparse audience chamber in the Keep.

Noctis stands on the first tier of the dïas, Gladio at his right shoulder with Iris beside him.

Above them, sitting on the centre throne is the Lucian Diente.

Regis, a name Prompto only knows from listening to the countless tirades Aldercapt subjected him to during punishments, is younger than Prompto expected. He’s a commanding presence, even in a room as big as this.

“Ignis and the Niflheim prince, Your Majesty.”

A guard announces their arrival with a sweeping gesture and Prompto bows automatically, keeping his gaze squarely to the floor as he was taught. The silence is deafening, the weight of staring eyes on him burning the back of his neck.

“Look at me, young Prince. You are Aldercapt’s son?”

Raising his head, Prompto finds Regis’ green eyes trained on him. The vibrant colour startles him a little, still unused to the array of gemstone colours the Lucians are known for. He gets to take in the Diente’s ostentatious clothing, clearly worn to show the authority and power he holds, as well as the man wearing them.

“My name is Prompto Aldercapt, Your Majesty. I’m here at the invitation of your son.”

Noctis makes an approving sound from where he stands, even as Gladio scowls heavily and Prompto can still feel Ignis’ body heat just behind his left shoulder.

Regis, clearly pleased about the transpiring events, gives an encouraging smile from where he sits and it starts to ease some of Prompto’s nerves.

“I trust your father is none too pleased about your presence here,” Regis muses. “Did he ask you to kill me?”

Prompto swears you would be able to hear a pin drop in the silence that follows the Diente’s question. All eyes are burning holes through his skin as they await his answer and he can see Gladio physically restraining himself from attacking him again.

“As a matter of fact,” Prompto’s answer is cautious but truthful. “I was ordered to gather information that would assist our troops. However, I’m not my father and I have no interest in playing an active part in this war.”

“Then what _do_ you have an interest in, little Prince?” Regis leans forward, elbows on knees as he stares intently at Prompto.

Prompto is well aware of the scrutiny he’s under, standing in the depths of the Lucian court, alone and far from rescue. If he were to say or do the wrong thing, there would be no saving him. It doesn’t stop him from pulling his shoulders back, standing at military rest and looking squarely back at Regis.

“I am only interested in finding common ground where we can finally be at peace.”

The following silence is only broken by the muffled music that someone has started outside, filtering in through open windows and Prompto feels his heart ready to beat out of his chest.

Just when he feels fit to make an escape, Regis bursts into raucous laughter and the tension that had been building dissipates. Ignis places a steadying hand on Prompto’s shoulder and he feels like he can breathe again, lithe fingers a comforting weight through the gifted clothing.

“Then it would seem,” Regis stands and begins to descend the steps to join his son. “That we share that interest, already.”

Someone chuckles quietly when Prompto breathes out a sigh of relief, starting to feel secure in his decision to meet the Lucians his father so despises. That confidence is shattered as Regis speaks again.

“How do you feel about marriage, little Prince?”


End file.
